


The Kingsmen Academy Of Ballet

by moreblack



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, F/F, M/M, Minor Character Death, Other, allison but welsh :), also a murder mystery, but he has History so we excuse it, kevin but he kept the irish accent :), neil but scottish :), neil's kind of a drama queen, seth but hes a roadman sad times, so. be warned for that, twinyards but english :)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-18 05:54:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28613136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moreblack/pseuds/moreblack
Summary: this is a wild, game of survival.Neil Josten finds himself in Cambridge with nothing but a head injury and a thirst for revenge. The things he uncovers at the Kingsmen Academy are darker than he could ever dream: twisted secrets, hidden romances… and a murder plot.He comes for the stage, but he stays for the dancers.
Relationships: Allison Reynolds/Renee Walker (All For The Game), Jeremy Knox/Jean Moreau, Kevin Day/Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard, Matt Boyd/Danielle "Dan" Wilds, Nicky Hemmick/Erik Klose, Seth Gordon/Allison Reynolds, past Kevin Day/Jean Moreau - Relationship
Comments: 23
Kudos: 51





	1. on pointe

**Author's Note:**

> hello okay just making it clear that this fic. is a murder mystery. bc occasionally people do not read the tags sihdisjxk

Neil Josten stares at the cigarette in his shaking hand for all of five seconds before he crushes it under his heel. He doesn’t need blackened lungs; he needs to perfect his routine. Starting up smoking again might send him to hospital before autumn term even starts, and he really isn’t in the mood to forge medical papers.

The hall is deserted except for him. He stares at the poster in his hands, the one he ripped off a board in Inverness a month ago; **School Ballet Team in Highlands Village. Auditions on the 18th.** Cold air whips through the hall as he runs his hand over the swans sketched onto the paper. Someone left the doors open; it’s freezing outside, but they’re creaky enough that Neil can’t risk closing them. If the caretakers find him sleeping here again, he’s going to have to face the consequences, whatever those consequences might be. Expulsion. Police station. Foster system.

His actual parents. 

Neil shoots to his feet and grabs his duffle bag, racing towards the stage at the sound of footsteps. Maybe people don’t usually do ballet in muddy sneakers and a jacket but practicing gives him an excuse to be at the school this early in the morning. He slips his bandanna off his wrist, pushing his hair out his eyes, and climbs the wooden steps. Music starts playing in his mind, something classic and slow. Neil takes a deep breath and begins stretching. Judging from the fact the footsteps sound like they’re above him, he has about five minutes until someone comes in.

He knows it’s Hernandez before the instructor even speaks, clear from the contrast of his soft footsteps to how heavily he pushes the door open. Instead of turning to him like a teacher’s pet would, Neil watches Hernandez from the corner of his eye as he starts to move across the stage, feet light and fast. There’s no room for falling in ballet. “God, Josten. Do you ever take a break?” Hernandez asks, crossing to the front row and leaning against one of the chairs bordering the aisle. He watches Neil’s movements intently. “Your parents weren’t at the show yesterday, by the way. I thought you said they’d come.”

Turning up the music that’s playing in his head, Neil prances into an assemblé and pointedly ignores the second half of Hernandez’s comment. “Practice is important.” His next turn lands him in the direction of his instructor’s unimpressed face, and he relents, knowing it’ll be suspicious otherwise. “Fine. I said they _might,_ not that they _would._ They were waiting to see if a client in Aberdeen was free, and it turned out she was.” Neil’s lying through his teeth. 

“So what? Business is more important than you?”

“I told them they wouldn’t be missing out on much. It’s not like I’m the best ballet dancer in Scotland, is it?” He draws his arms up and spins, closing his eyes as he sinks into the familiar flow of dancing. For a second he can almost forget where he is, who he’s pretending to be. It’s just him and the stage. Neil leans into it, feeling almost weightless as he prances and spins. His legs are going to ache like hell after this: he doesn’t care, curving his body, sewing all his best moves into one seamless routine.

Then Hernandez clears his throat, and Neil has to force back a flinch, his eyes shooting open as he grinds to a halt. “I think what you just did says differently.” With that, he sits down on the chair beside him, and Neil pauses, stumped. He was just enjoying himself. That doesn’t make him Scotland’s best, does it? Just because he was doing what he liked? “Stop with the deer in headlights look, Neil, you're the only reason this school’s got any attention in the past few weeks. Just admit you’re good. If you weren’t, there wouldn’t be someone here to see you.”

Neil’s momentary pause stops and his life kickstarts back into motion, too clear and too fast, running through every single person he’s ever crossed. Too many. His heart jackrabbits in his chest. “What do you mean? Who’s here to see me?” He reaches for his duffle bag, mind already halfway to the nearest exit, thanking a god he doesn’t believe in that he didn’t close the doors. But if they’re here then there might already be someone waiting outside--

“I’m trying to recruit you, kiddo, not kill you. Drop the bag and give me a second before you bolt.” The man’s voice is bored, but he’s regarding Neil with interest as he leans against the doorway. Neil knows he’s seen his face somewhere, but he can’t figure it out. His voice is deep, his accent thickly, unmistakably American, and the arms crossed over his chest are covered only by a navy t-shirt. Who the fuck wears short sleeves in the Highlands? In _September?_

Neil sets his shoulders. “That’s keech. No one even knows this village exists, much less this school,” he retorts. In the front row, Hernandez has the nerve to look slightly offended, before he realises that Neil’s right and huffs.

The stranger rolls his eyes. “There’s this thing called a map. You might have heard of it,” he shoots back. He’s staring right at Neil, and even though Neil knows he’s wearing his contacts, even though he checked and double checked and the guy is probably too far away to even see the colour, he pulls off his bandanna so his hair falls over his face.

“Why me?” he asks, instead of the other questions that are itching to spill off his tongue. The dude’s buff, but he isn’t a threat. Neil would know.

His stomach drops when the man says, “Hernandez sent us your tapes last month. Kevin said we had to get you on the team, and we’re one short from the… the whole Janie thing anyway, so now we’re here.” Oh. Kevin Day and Janie Smalls, he means. So this must be Wymack, the instructor to one of Britain’s most prestigious ballet academies. No, scrap that, one of _Europe’s_ most prestigious. For all their reputation, Neil knows Wymack makes a point of recruiting dancers with nothing going for them. What exactly has Hernandez said about him?

Shit. Neil grabs his duffel and turns. Before he can even get off the stage, something smacks into his head and he crashes against the hardwood, fuzzy gaze landing on--

_Are those fucking pointe shoes?_ he thinks sluggishly as he hears Wymack’s voice above him. “Goddammit, Minyard, this is why we can’t have nice things.”

That would be Andrew Minyard, Neil assumes, a dancer at the academy and also its resident psycho. He pushes himself onto his knees, head pounding, and spits out a “Fuck you.” as the ground spins under him.

The two-fingered salute Andrew gives him in response is probably supposed to be mocking, but instead it comes out looking slightly manic. He bends down to pick up the shoes. Neil’s just trying to stay upright as Andrew says, “Better luck next time.” The weak September sun highlights the gold in his crazed look, and Neil feels a lurch of hatred strong enough to propel him to his feet.

“C’mon, Andrew, I thought we went over giving the new kids head trauma.” rings a familiar Irish tilt, and Neil’s still-blurry vision fixes on the world’s favourite danseur sitting in the seat nearest the entrance. He wonders whether it’s the shoes or the non-prescription contacts that are fucking him up. Maybe it’s just the anger. “And stealing,” Kevin tuts. “Since you clearly wouldn’t have pointes of your own.”

Neil glares at Wymack, digging his nails into his palm until there’s red crescents in the skin. Can’t he have one normal month? Just one, before things go back to his own twisted version of normal? “Control your fuckin’ animals and maybe then I’ll sign,” he growls, shooting a glare at Andrew as he says it. Minyard looks delighted.

Then Kevin clears his throat, and Neil forces himself not to react as he looks at him. Does Kevin recognise him? Is that why he’s here? He’s barely changed, the only difference being that he’s older and taller, and that his dark hair almost reaches his shoulders now instead of ending at the nape of his neck. His eyes are still just as green and his cheeks are still just as dimpled, despite the sarcasm in his smile. “Why me?” Neil repeats. He needs to know.

It’s life or death. Ballet always has been for him.

“I’ve seen you dance,” he says, and Neil relaxes the tiniest bit. “It's like you have nothing to lose. Like your world starts and ends with the stage. The Kingsmen could use someone like you.”

___

In the end, Neil signs, because of course he does. And as with any good thing that happens to him, he regrets it instantly.

Leaving Inverness was already a bad idea. Leaving to join a ballet team was a worse one, but he could’ve saved his ass if he just sucked it up and stayed there a little longer, kept his profile low. Instead he attracted the attention of England’s top ballet school. Now here he is, in the passenger seat of Wymack’s car, watching the river roll by as they pull into Cambridge. 

“You ever been to England before?” asks Wymack while he drives, probably just to fill the air. He’s watching Neil in the side view mirror. Neil’s pretty sure that’s a safety risk, but he shakes his head anyway, saving his voice for the hundreds of new faces he’ll only have to lie to.

Like he is right now. Because Neil’s crossed through England many, many times, just not as Neil Josten. Well, there’s a first time for everything, Neil thinks as the car draws to a stop. He can’t back out now. Not when The Kingsmen Academy looms above him in all its brown-bricked, stained-glass glory. Its doors are wide open, stairs filled with chattering students wearing everything between tees and tutus.

Anyone could walk right in. 

Neil swallows his fear and steps onto the pavement.


	2. first impressions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neil pisses off his headteacher, has a crisis about his dormmate, and makes a new (maybe) friend. All in all, not a bad first day, eh?

“Welcome to the Kingsmen Academy of Ballet.” 

Sir Whittier smiles blindingly, holding out his hand to Neil, who takes a second to realise that he’s supposed to shake it. One side of the headmaster’s smile slips; he fixes it back in place instantly, but Neil notices the split-second reaction, as he always does. It does nothing to ease the tension in his shoulders. “It’s a pleasure to have you here, Mr Josten,” he says after a brief clearing of his throat, and there’s about a thousand sarcastic responses Neil has to swallow down. Rule number one: don’t start a fight until you’ve been there for at least twenty minutes. _This might be a special case, though,_ he thinks as he eyes the corncockles and ramsons decorating the exterior. The very flowers he’s allergic to.

Realistically, Neil knows they aren’t trying to give him an allergic reaction on his first day, but, well. Paranoia doesn’t exactly care what is and isn’t realistic. He ducks his head and walks right past Whittier’s still-outstretched hand.

First impressions might be important to a lot of people; just not to Neil.

Footsteps echo as he moves to catch up, and Neil bites back a smirk, watching the students throw glances their way. All of them look just as prim and proper as he’d expect of a ballet academy, everything about them neat and tight, their eyes cold as they rake over the newbie. There’s an occasional smile flashed at him here and there-- a guy with dark skin and darker hair, the pale blonde dude dude on his arm the exact opposite, but both offering Neil rare warmth for a stranger in a school like this. A girl whose hijab is perfectly coordinated to this wicked varsity jumper that Neil can’t help but eye jealously. A kid with freckles everywhere in sight and the tips of their hair dyed hot pink. Niceties aren’t something that Neil gets particularly bothered about, but he takes it all in his stride anyway.

Whittier is droning on about the school values: _perseverance, elegance, and most of all, honesty._ How can he have been in the ballet industry as long as he has and think there’s any room for honesty? Neil’s barely an adult and yet he seems to have more experience. 

Something Whittier says about dorms jerks Neil back into reality, notifying him that this might actually be important. “The Kingsmen Academy of Ballet is proud to boast the finest dorms in Cambridge. We have all the facilities you’ll need, ranging from the simple necessities of a bedroom to the pool we had installed last year for the student body.” Probably leeched off an alumni’s royalties, Neil thinks, unable to stop himself. Most of the academy’s students will be here on scholarships; they can’t pay for all those facilities off tuition fees alone, and Neil knows what schools like this do when their pupils make it big. They remind the poor kid how helpful they were on the road to stardom, offer an assistant under the guise of a helping hand, someone who will sort out their money and make sure it ends up in the right place.

See: Whittier’s pocket.

The headmaster scans his clipboard, frowning. “And your roommates will be… uh, let me see, where’s the… ah yes!” Neil swears his stomach drops out of him when Whittier says, “Matt Boyd and Kevin Day. Kingsmen’s newest star, as I’m sure you’re aware! Our first transfer from L’Académie du Corbeau, can you believe that?” _Fuck. Fuck!_

None of what the headmaster says next makes it through to Neil. He’s too focused on trying not to run right back out the way he came. He doesn’t know anything about Matt, but he can’t exactly say the same for his other dormmate.

Rooming with Kevin, it goes against everything he’s been living his life by these past years. All he can think of is green eyes in the darkness of an academy in France; of dark hands in red hair and stolen glances behind a stage curtain. Most people would be, at best, disappointed if they looked the same at twenty-one as they did when they were fifteen. For Neil it’s downright terrifying. If he has to live the rest of his term in the same room as Kevin, there’s no telling how long it will take for him to see that same fifteen year old. 

They’ll let him change rooms, surely, when it’s only his first week here. New kids take priority, right? Even in a uni as fucked as the Kingsmen? Ballet instructors only care about whether their kids can dance, not whether their press smile is real. No one will ask why he wants to switch. All Neil has to do is find student services and he won’t have to be alone with Kevin ever-

“Josten? Are you alright?” comes Whittier’s voice, concerned enough to make the sick feeling in Neil’s stomach worsen, and Neil realises he’s stopped walking. Shit, he’s stopped _breathing._ One mention of Kevin and he’s already dropping his cover.

Neil clears his throat and sets his shoulders back. “Fine, sir. Just got lost in me thoughts,” he excuses, decidedly leaving out exactly what those thoughts include. It earns him a weird look from Whittier, but he’d rather be judged for zoning out than for his and Kevin’s past.

After what feels like days but is probably a few hours of Neil thinking about tattooed cheekbones and how exactly he can stay at least fifty metres away from them, Whittier draws to a stop in front of a glass-walled studio. He drops some form of colour-coded map into Neil’s hands and points to a room shaded in blue, up near what Neil assumes is the dorms. “This is Abby’s office. School nurse. You get hurt, it’s straight to her, don’t bother with anyone else. Abby will get you to who and what you need. Next room over-” He points at said room. It looks the same, except its obnoxious highlighting is in yellow instead of blue. “-you’ve already met Wymack. Any other problems are his to deal with. He knows what to do. Don’t come to me; I have too much paperwork for guidance counselling. That would be for Bee, though, who’s in that pink room right there.” Neil doesn’t know why he’s still pointing when all the rooms are neatly labelled and right next to each other.

Whittier plasters a smile across his face when one of the teachers walks past, placing a hand on Neil’s shoulder, and it takes all of Neil not to throw up right on the headmaster’s fancy dress shoes. “Alright, Rhemann! Just introducing the new kid to the workings of the Kingsmen!” Then he turns back to Neil and lets his smile fade, removing his hand from an extremely grateful Neil. “Remember the virtues. Remember the rules. You’re here to dance. Now go: you’ll be late for your first lesson.”

Neil doesn’t bother with meaningless thank yous. He just shoots Whittier a glare and marches through the glass doors.

Familiar piano fills the room, maybe Chopin; Neil isn’t sure. No one pays him any attention, and he takes the chance to pay all his attention to everyone. He drops all the shit Whittier piled him with by the back of the studio before he finds a free space at the barre. At first he focuses on the possible exits. There’s the obvious door, and the slight opening in the stained glass window; that seems to be pretty much it, but then again, the front wall is glass too. He knows enough to crash right through it if things come to that. Not that they will- probably- but one can plan. 

Next he turns his attention to his classmates. On either side of him there’s two girls who look the exact same, skin pale and brown hair pulled neatly into tight buns. It’s almost eerie how similar they are. _Identical twins,_ Neil’s brain supplies unnecessarily, and then corrects it to _triplets_ when he sees the boy across the barre from him with the exact same features as the girls and doing the exact same movements. Creepy. It’s giving Neil the heebie jeebies how in sync they are.

Next to creepy identical triplet boy, some rainbow-haired kid’s practicing her stretches, murmuring softly to the girl across from her-- tall, blonde hair cascading down her back, and with what looks like more lower body strength than Neil could ever even dream of having.

Sick. Neil makes a mental note to get to know her.

“Alright, alright, can we have some silence?” Neil straightens at the gruff voice, turning to see his new instructor walk into the room. It doesn’t exactly go as silent as he asked, but a few people stop talking, which Neil thinks might be progress. At least Wymack looks slightly appeased. “You’re probably all aware that there’s been some changes made to this year’s show. Y’all know Janie.” The tiny pocket of silence stretches, washing over the entire room, and Neil thinks it drops ten degrees colder. Janie Smalls was the Kingsmen’s last recruit. She was supposed to be the star of their next show, a success in the eyes of the press, until she didn’t show up to rehearsals and a member of the tech crew found her floating face-down in the pool.

 _Suicide,_ the police had reasoned. _Murder,_ frantic students of the academy had claimed. And of course, _unsolved,_ the newspapers had gushed, headlines that love turning a traumatic event into a true crime novel.

“Well, Janie’s role is empty now, for, uh. Obvious reasons.” Someone clears their throat. Half the room shifts uncomfortably, but Neil is unbothered. Maybe he should make an effort to look a little more affected by death? Is that what inconspicuous people do? “So we’ll be giving that over to Luiza Petrova. Congrats, Luiza,” Wymack deadpans drily as a smatter of awkward applause breaks across the group. One of the identical girls curtsies, the one on Neil’s right, and Neil finds it slightly fascinating that her siblings don’t move with her. “You’ll be starring alongside Seth. Another change y’all probably noticed; the brunet over there by the mirror. New kid, Neil Josten. He’ll be Allison’s dance partner for the term, since her last one dropped out from an ankle injury.” The blonde girl mutters something before waving at Neil, who grins back with a thumbs up. _Mental note: checked off._

With all the important stuff out the way, Wymack starts droning on a most likely scripted speech about team morale and ‘togetherness’. He looks like he’s being held at gunpoint. Neil can’t stifle a snort as he goes back to his stretching. He’s halfway through his routine when the blonde girl- Allison, Neil remembers- makes her way over to him. The Welsh Valleys accent hangs thick around her words when she says, “He gives this speech literally every half term. I’m Alli, by the way, we’re gonna be dancing together for the next few weeks.” She lounges against the barre, flashing him a catlike smile, and oh, Neil likes this one. 

“What’s even the production?” he asks, stretching languidly against the barre. His gaze slips over Allison’s shoulder at the bang of the doors when Kevin and Andrew barrell into the room ten minutes late. The tips of Minyard’s ears are flushed red, and Kevin’s hair is an absolute disaster as the dark-haired dude who smiled at Neil earlier chastises them. Wymack just shoots them a vaguely exasperated expression before he turns back to the kid he’s helping.

Allison clicks her tongue. “That’s gonna be my twenty quid.” At Neil’s confused expression, she explains: “We have an ongoing pool that Kevin and Andrew are shagging. I don’t know how people can still bet against me when they constantly show up late and looking like _that._ Anyway,” Allison continues, as if she hadn’t just casually dropped the biggest fucking bomb possible on Neil, “I think we’re doing some weird retelling of Coppélia? Like, Rhemann and some students wrote the entire thing, so it’s bound to be fucked. Our role’s one of the main ones, though, so I say it’s tidy.” 

“Reynolds! Josten! This is ballet, not a coffee morning! You can gossip at lunch break!” Wymack calls across the studio. Allison rolls her eyes at him, unbothered, and Neil wonders why the Kingsmen bothers with their very specific recruitment criteria when all it means is a student body of rulebreakers.

Then again, said criteria is giving Neil a chance at an actual life. He pushes off the barre and lets Allison guide him into their starting position.


	3. not a date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neil leaves the star of uni ballet speechless, tries not to get too attached to anyone, and definitely does not get a date.

Neil thought he was ready to face Kevin again. 

He stands in front of the door, titled 13B. Checks his info sheet. Checks again. Clutches his duffel tighter. Yup, definitely the right room. He was wrong; he is _so_ not ready for any of this.

Before he can retrace his steps and move to, like, Tasmania or some shit, the door swings open to a man who Neil recognises, distinctly, as not-Kevin. He’s tall and grinning, hair spiked up in a high top afro as he holds out a hand for Neil to shake. “Hey. You must be Josten, right? I’m Matt Boyd, I’m your new roommate.” He has the same stuffy London accent as the Minyards. 

“Aye,” Neil says, stiffly shaking Matt’s hand before he barrels past him into the room. The decor is disgusting; orange and white painted on the old bricks of the university town, banners stitched with the fox symbol of the academy’s dance team, the Kingsmen Foxes. Thick blackout curtains hang over the windows. There’s the slightest gap where Neil can see the river snaking outside, but otherwise the only light source is a small chandelier on the ceiling that looks horribly out of place. He loves it. 

And, even better: Kevin doesn’t seem to be home yet.

Two of the beds are unmade (understatement of the century), so Neil pads over to the only one with its black-and-white bedding tucked neatly into the sides and stashes his bag under it. He can feel Matt’s eyes trying to burn holes through his back. Neil ignores him, thoroughly investigating all the new units that he has nothing to put into. 

Eventually Matt clears his throat and says, “You must really be something, for Day to want to sign you so fast.” Ah. There it is. Being a Fox, Matt could be jealous, could be curious- or it could be some screwed ulterior motive Neil couldn’t begin to dream up. Then again, that might just be the paranoia talking.

“Everyone on this team is _something,”_ Neil replies, passive, not bothering to treat Matt to eye contact. He’s trying to convince himself he’s never seen anything as interesting as the shelves in front of him. Maybe if he stares at the wood long enough, the world around him will just... fade.

There’s a noise behind him, and when he turns on instinct, it’s to find Matt grinning. “Oh, you’re gonna fit right in.” He’s knocked over one of the journals on his shelf, probably just so Neil would look at him. Dickhead. That draws Neil’s attention to the posters next to it: a man who might be Arthur Mitchell caught mid-leap, and a flyer dated from last year’s uni ballet competition of a woman who Neil recognises as Dan Wilds, the student regarded as the unofficial captain to the Foxes. Matt follows where Neil’s looking and his grin only widens. “That’s Dan, my girlfriend. She’s awesome, you’ll love her.”

Neil hums in forced agreement. Yeah, right. He kicks his shoes off, dropping back onto the bed, and stares up at the stains on the ceiling until his eyes start to droop.

At least he can get some sleep before Kevin gets back.

****

**\---**

The bang of a door makes Neil bolt up, his face sweaty and salty. In his dream, it was a gunshot.

“Fucking Seth,” Kevin mutters, either not noticing or completely ignoring Neil as he storms into the room, towel thrown over his shoulder, long hair damp. “Thinks he’s so much better than everyone because Wymack gave him the part-” he tosses the towel onto his bed and slips on a sweater- “Thinks everything he does is so cool when all of our turns are better than his-” storms over to the half-open window, slamming it shut and making Neil jolt, his nightmare still lingering- “God, if I’d known he would be so cocky, I would have told Wymack to fucking evict him.”

Matt snorts. “Still a tosser, huh.”

“Still a tosser,” Kevin agrees as he slides into his desk seat. It’s then that Neil notices a red electric guitar propped against the wall, the floor by Kevin’s feet a mess of cords and amps. “I can’t get anything done with him, I swear to Christ. All he does is gloat and smirk. Does he even realise none of us can stand him?” He waves an angry hand in the general direction of the three of them and drops his head onto the desk, groaning. Ah. So he does realise Neil’s there, then.

Across the room, Matt catches Neil’s eyes, so Neil takes the chance to mouth _what’s his problem?_ Matt mouths back, _teaching assistant._ Neil makes a face and reaches for his leaflet.

While the Kingsmen is mostly regarded as a ballet academy- it’s even in the goddamn name, Neil thinks- they offer plenty of courses outside of dance, and according to the leaflet, Foxes are highly encouraged to take another subject. He hums as he browses his options: there’s a Kingsmen College of Maths on campus, and the College of Art’s a pretty solid option, albeit one that might give away a little too much about his personality. He could probably get away with a language module, too. His Spanish could use some work. How he’ll get in without any A-Levels is the big question, but he has a feeling Wymack could pull a few strings.

By the time Kevin clears his throat, Neil’s read the leaflet front to back at least three times. He’s making progress on a fourth. “Josten. D’ye have plans? Cancel your plans.” He gets up and moves briskly to the doorway, gesturing for Neil to follow. Matt rolls his eyes. “You’re practicing with me and Andrew.”

That makes Matt shoot up halfway through his eye roll. “Minyard?” The look Kevin gives him is exasperated, and Neil remembers, vaguely, Allison saying something about a bet. 

“Yes, Minyard,” Kevin sighs. “That’s the only Andrew on our team, eejit. You’re not gonna squeeze a fiver out of a nonexistent hookup.” He whisks into the corridor, leaving Matt looking disappointed. Neil snorts as he gets up to follow him, trying to flatten his hair into something a bit less noticeable. 

Kevin doesn’t bother looking back at him. “It’s not like you’re an awful dancer,” he says, sounding bored, and Neil has to stifle the sarcastic _gee, thanks_ that’s threatening to bubble up. “I signed you for a reason. But you’re not at Foxes level, yet-”

“The Foxes haven’t made it to a single semi final since the team was started,” he interjects, trying to look innocent even though Kevin’s not looking at him, cursing himself on the inside. _Wrong. Wrong. You’re meant to be quiet, you’re meant to be a pushover, you’re not meant to sass Kevin fucking Day-_

But thank God, Kevin just laughs. “True. But they never had me before,” he points out, and oh, Neil missed this, missed Kevin’s big ego, missed the way he’s irritatingly in his rights to have one.

Fuck. Since when did Neil miss him?

He’s not going to let himself answer that.

“I assume you’re aware of my past as a star dancer under L’Académie du Corbeau.” Kevin sounds like he’s trying to be proud of it. Neil knows better than anyone that he can’t be. “I also assume you’re aware of their status as the top academy in university level ballet, and of the fact they’ve won, like, every competition for the past ten years. Well,” he glances over his shoulder, throwing Neil what he recognises as a forced smile, “they just lost their most valuable asset. The Foxes are nowhere near the level of the Académie’s Ravens, sure, but the Kingsmen is known for producing some of the top ballerinas worldwide. If Wymack would just let me try some Raven techniques-” Kevin sighs, stopping himself, and Neil can tell this is a sore spot.

He moves to catch up to Kevin. “I’ll try them. I’ll try them now, actually, if we’re gaunnie practice. Wymack doesn’t need to know.”

Kevin arches a brow. “Andrew’s going to hate you,” he says, vaguely, and before Neil can get an elaboration out of him, he draws to a stop in front of two heavy dark oak doors. There’s a brass knocker shaped like a hand on each one, and the wood is carved with the lines of music notes and twisting bodies. He’s better at drums than anything, so it’s not like he has sheet music for that, but-- he draws on his few years of violin lessons, and he thinks that might be the opening to Swan Lake, and that one looks like a Mozart piece, he’s pretty sure. Neil’s gaze falls on the plaque at the top just as Kevin breathes out, _“The auditorium.”_

He sounds horribly obsessed. Neil can’t really say he’s any better. 

The doors swing open to Andrew Minyard looking at them in disinterest. “Don’t try to make me dance.”

Kevin waves a hand. “The stage is always open to you, you know it is. I won’t force you.” He pushes past onto the aisle, marching towards the front of the hall like a man on a mission, and Neil tries to ignore the way Andrew’s studying him as he follows Kevin to the stage.

What does he do now? He climbs up the last stair, stares down at the hardwood, waits for Kevin to boss him around. Waits to hear Kevin’s voice. Instead he hears the opening notes of what he thinks is a Tchaikovsky. His head shoots up to stare at Kevin, confused. 

Kevin cocks his head. “Your old instructor informed us about a knack for improvising. Go on, then,” he says, and his green eyes are calculating, and when Neil twists to look at the audience, Andrew’s watching like a hawk in the front row. He doesn’t even try to tone down the intensity of his gaze when he catches Neil looking. “Show us what you’ve got.”

Neil swallows.

He can do this. It’s what he does best, it’s what he’s always done best, _he can do this._ He fixes Kevin’s cold green with icy blue as he lets his world fade into the music.

 _Prepare. Turn. Finish._ Andrew is still staring, and Neil feels held down by the weight of it, like a butterfly with his wings pinned. But, no, they aren’t pinned at all, because he’s spinning and spinning and spinning and he’s never felt freer and if he was being held down he wouldn’t be able to-

 _Rond de jambe. Fouette, fouette, fouette._ The movement comes to him like a second language. A fluency spoken in hips and arms and legs. He twists, catches Kevin’s gaze with the movement, keeps it as he lifts himself into the air. Maybe he’s the one doing the pinning. Being here, on the stage- it makes him feel unstoppable. Like he has the world at his fingertips, like he can do anything with a polished kick or a practiced twist.

 _Chaînés. Chaînés again._ Tchaikovsky starts to pick up the tempo, so Neil moves with it, twirls and bends to the strikes of the keys. He lifts onto his toes and tilts his head back and starts to pirouette so fast it’s dizzying-

The music stops. Neil drops his arms to his sides, confused, and watches as Kevin struggles to tear his eyes away. He stares at his hand against the stereo, fascinated, like even he doesn’t know why he stopped Neil, like it moved of its own accord. Then he jolts and straightens his back, fixing that calculated expression back in place. “That wasn’t on any of the tapes Hernandez sent.”

Is he stupid? “Aye,” Neil says, slowly, like he’s talking to a toddler. He might as well be. “That’d be because I’ve never done it before.” God, he should’ve never come to the Kingsmen, he should have stayed in his bumfuck Highlands village where no one knew his name or expected him to magically pick up their train of thought.

A low voice from the audience makes Neil jump. He’d half forgotten Andrew was there. “Bullshit.”

The fuck are they on about? “You asked me to improvise, so I did. What’s bullshit about that?” He’s getting riled up now, and he swallows back the defensiveness. That’ll only make it worse. Kevin watches him carefully, like Neil’s an equation he doesn’t know how to solve. Like he has all the numbers and all the arithmetic symbols, he just can’t figure out how they fit together. Neil could say the same about him. “I’m here to learn, not to show you what I already know,” he says instead.

Andrew’s voice, again. “Oh, lookie, Day, I think you’ve finally met your match.” Neil glances over at him, and he looks- entertained? Not outright, never outright, but Neil’s spent enough time reading people to notice there’s a glint in his eye that wasn’t there before.

In front of him, Kevin pulls a face, scanning Neil like he’s sizing him up. Neil lifts his head defiantly, refusing to be intimidated; it’s a vain effort when Kevin presses two fingers against his chin and murmurs, “We’ll see about that yet.” 

****

**\---**

Neil comes back to his dorm bone-tired and panting. He takes one look at the expression on Matt’s face and turns right back to walk into the shower. He really isn't in the mood for the Foxes to drag him into one of their bets. 

Plus, he’d rather not be in the same room as Kevin right now. Not when he’s still burning from where Kevin touched him. _God, Josten, get a grip on yourself,_ he thinks as he strips off his shirt and pointedly does not look in the mirror. 

He turns the dial as hot as it will go until it drowns his thoughts out.

****

**\---**

The next day, Neil wakes up not knowing where or who he is.

It’s cold, he registers vaguely. There’s a blanket on him, but it’s still cold. The wall next to him is- is orange? Why would someone paint their wall orange? Neil blinks drearily, waiting for his surroundings to clear enough that he can grab his bag and run, before he freezes.

 _Neil._ Who’s Neil? Why is he calling himself that?

It comes back quickly enough, after that. Neil Josten. He’s Neil Josten, and the orange is for the Foxes, and it’s cold because he’s in Cambridge in September, and that man across the room from him is Matt Boyd, watching with rapt interest as Neil’s arm hangs over the side of the bed, reaching for his duffle.

He pulls his arm back like he’s been burned. “Stop looking at me.”

“You were going to run,” Matt accuses. “It’s not like I could just look away.” Neil didn’t expect him to be so intuitive, but, well, he’s a Fox. For all he likes to think he is, Neil most likely isn’t the only one of his new classmates that knows how to read people.

Neil huffs and slides out of bed, glancing at the clock. “We have practice in ten. Get up.” One glance at Kevin’s bed confirms his suspicions that, yep, the star of uni ballet is already gone, his night clothes folded neatly and his bedding anything but.

“Day gets up at, like, three in the morning,” Matt says casually as he turns away to get changed. Oh, if only Boyd knew just how well Neil knows Kevin. He takes the opening and slips into the uniform hanging in his closet while Matt isn’t looking. He grabs the deodorant, tucks his only pyjama set into his drawers, pops a mint into his mouth. They’ve got their first rehearsal all the way on the other side of the campus, according to his schedule, and Neil will barely have time to sort out his bedhead, let alone brush his teeth. “They’re not gonna go easy on you, by the way, just because you’re new. Easy isn’t in the Kingsmen vocabulary.”

Neil ignores the attempt to intimidate him in favour of shrugging on an extra layer of a hoodie and sweats. He grabs his duffle, just in case, and waits in the doorway just like Kevin did last night.

On the way, Matt says something about the canteen food and then stops trying to make conversation, something Neil is eternally grateful for. He picks up the pace when they approach a set of doors just like the auditorium ones, albeit smaller, and shoulders through them without waiting for Matt. Allison’s waving him over at a barre in the centre of the room.

"Neil, Neility Neil, Josten, Illie-” Neil makes a face, Allison sticks her tongue out in response- “This is Dan, and this is Renee, they’re the only girl Foxes besides me and you _have_ to make friends with them too so that you can come on our shopping trips because I need to teach you the basic rules of fashion.” Why is she being so nice to him? She’s acting like they’re… friends, or something.

He pushes back the crisis to find Renee smiling warmly at him. The tips of her hair are dyed rainbow; Neil remembers seeing her on his first day. “Hello, Neil. It’s nice to meet you.” Neil instantly doesn’t like her. He waves at her anyway, for Allison’s sake.

Dan doesn’t bother with handshakes, too preoccupied with flipping Matt off while he blows kisses at her, but eventually she turns back to the three of them and joins in their stretching routine. “Hey, rookie, you wanna go get Minyard from the dorms? Andrew, I mean. Leave Aaron in there, we don’t need him for today anyway.”

Allison scoffs. “Sacrificing the new kid? Honestly, Dan, I expected better of you.” She shoos Neil away anyway, hand waving lazily. “Go, go, I’ll mark you in,” she reassures.

God, Neil is really regretting coming to this school. He slides his hoodie back on and steels himself for a knife fight.

****

**\---**

“Come to rehearsals with us.” 

He’s interrupting whatever game the twins are playing. Mario, maybe? Video games aren’t exactly a necessity. His mother never bothered with them while they were on the run, because even if all the spoiled kids at their two-week stopover in Gangnam had a playstation, their five million was mostly stored away, meant to be spent wisely.

Unaware of Neil’s inner dialogue, Andrew clicks a button on the controller and turns in his general direction. “You’re supposed to be there already.”

“I know. Come to rehearsals.”

“What do I get out of it?”

Something clatters to the ground. Neil makes sure he doesn’t flinch. Counts to ten in English, then back again, then the same in French and German and Thai. When he turns, after what feels like days but was probably less than a second, it’s to find Aaron, having dropped his own controller and giving Neil a look that says _don’t even try._ Neil has to bite back a, _did you?_

Instead, he watches Aaron’s tense frame disappear through the doorway as he closes it and leaves the two of them in the dorm.

Alone.

With a knife block on the counter.

Bolts on all the windows.

Great. Neil can handle Andrew, some of his earliest memories are scary people with drugs and knives, and then he can pick the locks and wish Cambridge a sweet goodbye. Doubling around to his dorm’s window is quicker over walls than through corridors, so Neil can have his duffle before Andrew so much as regains consciousness. He won’t need to do any of that, though, because Andrew probably isn’t violent without cause. Neil is going to do his very very best not to be a cause.

“Cake. Come to rehearsals and I’ll give you cake.”

“How much?”

“As much as you want.”

"I want lots of cake."

“Then you’ll have lots of cake.”

Andrew makes an obnoxious beeping noise. “Wrong answer. Kevin would kill me for wrecking my diet.” He turns back to his controller, apparently satisfied.

Neil mocks the beep, and Andrew twists right back to look over his shoulder, interest piqued. His avatar’s going a wee bit haywire. He doesn’t seem to care, leaving his controller untouched in favour of watching Neil with one eyebrow raised. “Also the wrong answer,” Neil says. “Kevin will think about killing the both of us. Only for a bit, though, and then he’ll be like-” he drops his voice to a deliberately terrible rendition of Kevin’s- _“Hey, I’m Kevin ‘has a hard-on for Tchaikovsky’ Day, and all I care about is ballet and whether my hair looks good. These are two of the most talented fuckers on my ballet team. If I kill them we’ll lose two good dancers, and we’ll get disqualified, and oh, I’ll get_ blood _in my_ hair, _that would take so much product to get out- oh, no, murder has bad consequences. And it’s bad publicity, I’m never going to get a boring girlfriend who I love far less than dancing if everyone sees the BBC discussing my homicidal tendencies.”_

He's met with silence. Andrew’s nose scrunches the tiniest bit. Is he trying not to laugh? No way. Maybe Neil should finally give up on his hatred for therapy, if he’s starting to see things. The quiet lasts eleven seconds, not that Neil’s counting. “Murder is great publicity. Just look at Janie,” Andrew says. And then, flatly: “You said I’m talented.”

Neil snorts and rolls his eyes. “Don’t pretend to be humble, Minyard, I’ve been dancing since I was a kid. I can see. What, you expect me to watch someone dance a whole ballet from memory, and actually do it well, and not think they have talent? I call bullshit.” He backs up until he’s against the counter so he can tug himself onto it. “Now, let’s talk about cake. Yes or no? If yes, what flavour? Want it right after rehearsals? How much? Want me to spoon-feed it to you like you’re a prince and I’m the servant who’s tasked with lovingly doting on you?” he jokes.

Andrew just stares at him for a moment, eyes narrowed. Then, “Yes. As many different flavours as possible. In the evening. Only one cake. And yes,” he says in response to the last question, making Neil’s heart rate increase to, like, a hundred fucking beats per second. What. He searches Andrew’s eyes for a sign he’s messing, for amusement to show itself (even just, like, one of the medicated psycho grins Andrew was known for a while ago would be reassuring at this point), waits for Andrew to stop looking dead serious-

Never comes. He’s not joking. The monotone monster of Cambridge isn’t joking, which Neil really should have expected, but monotone monsters also don’t usually ask people to feed them cake.

“Okay, that’s-” Neil swallows around the stones in his throat. What the fuck. Why does Minyard want him out the school so bad? Neil thought he’d keep the entertainment around for a little longer. “Okay. If that’s what it takes for you to show, okay.”

“And one more thing.”

“Fire away, your highness.”

"You're not funny." And then, like he's trying to get Neil to stop breathing: “I’ll go if you dance with me.”

Huh? Genuinely, what is Andrew trying to get out of him? Is he just trying to make him run? Boo hoo, Mr. Shitty Self-Performed Bleach Job doesn’t like him. Neil can learn to live with it. “Kevin would kill me.” It’s not a lie, really, just an omission. Kevin would _try_ to kill Neil, sure. He just wouldn’t get within five metres.

There’s that beeping sound again. “We already established we’re not worth his time. Besides, you passed the test. I’m coming,” he says, and Neil gets it then. He wanted to see what exactly Neil would do. If Neil would say yes, if he would press.

He drops off the counter, moving towards the door. “So no spoon feeding.”

“No spoon feeding.” Andrew agrees, trailing after him, and that’s that. What the hell, does Neil _want_ to feed cake to a sociopath? Two days in this place and he’s already going insane. “Hm. Unless you were asking that for a reason.” No, the test’s over now, Andrew must literally just be trying to scare him out the school.

Two can play at that game. “Eight o’clock sound good? We could even watch a movie,” he adds, not letting himself back down.

“Disney?”

“Disney.”

The walk is mostly quiet, save for the occasional _how many flavours can a cake even be?_ or _limitless flavours, if you’re not a coward,_ but unlike when he was with Matt, Neil doesn’t feel awkward. It’s a comfortable kind of silence. Doesn’t mean Neil likes Andrew any more than he did yesterday, though.

When they enter the room again, Dan looks genuinely surprised to see Andrew there and Neil unscathed. He feels a surge of irritation at the soulless image of Minyard they’ve built up, which then morphs into irritation at himself for being irritated in the first place. _Does_ he like Andrew? He can’t get attached so quickly. It’s only a matter of time before he’ll have to leave.

He remembers what Andrew said about dancing together, and almost follows him, before he reminds himself that it was just a test and makes his way back to the girls instead. Allison shoots Dan and Renee a look, and they move to the other side of the room, flocking towards Matt, someone who Neil’s pretty sure is Seth, and the dude he saw yesterday with the pink tips. “How did you do it?” Allison asks, excited. Neil stares at her. “I mean, did you- threaten him? Was it blackmail? _Oh my god, Neil, do you have blackmail on Andrew Minyard?_ Tell me, tell me, tell me.”

Oh, this team is _so_ fucked up. He hates how well he fits in. “No, I just… asked,” he says, putting it simply.

Allison bursts out laughing. She stops after what feels like an hour, wiping her tears, and then she looks at Neil and does a double take. “Wait. You’re serious? You can’t be serious.” He just keeps staring at her, and she shakes her head in disbelief. 

Thank god for Wymack. He storms in before she can interrogate him further and directs Matt and Dan to the centre of the room, telling the rest of the class to watch for the things they do well and the things they don’t.

As they study the pair’s pas de deux, Allison leans in close, and Neil prepares to evade her questions, but she must have already forgotten their earlier conversation. “So. You gonna come shopping with us today? I don’t care if you don’t have money, that’s not an excuse. I could buy the entire town and still have money to spare.” Wymack calls on her, and she snaps to attention, saying something about Dan’s movements being too stiff. Dan shoots her a glare; Neil’s just amazed at her ability to bullshit.

He leans back against the mirror. “I can’t today. I’m hanging out with Andrew.”

That gets Allison’s attention. She leans back with him, trying her best to look casual, and raises an eyebrow. “Oh? What’re you doing? I can’t imagine hanging out with Minyard,” she says, glancing over at where him and Kevin are trading judgemental looks. Andrew whispers something when the pair performing make a risky turn, and Kevin turns blue from trying not to laugh.

Neil snorts. “It was a bit of a dare. We’re, uh. Watching a Disney movie.” He casts his eyes skyward, praying to whatever gods might exist to not make this sound as bad as it does, and adds, “And I’m, uh. There’s gonna be cake. I’m kind of… feeding it to him? As a part of the dare. Of course.”

Nope, that was terrible. Allison looks at him like he’s just told her he plans to go up there and dance the Sugar Plum Fairy naked. “That’s… I don’t know if I wanna know what led to that. I’d come with as moral support, but I’m not trying to cockblock you.”

“C-” Neil chokes. “You- why would you be _cockblocking_ us? Oh my- it’s not a _date,_ I- _cockblock,_ Allison, I’m-”

She drops her head into her hands. “Hey. Hey, Neil? You are watching a movie together. You are feeding him _cake._ ”

“He’s not- you can’t- we just _met!_ And I don't even date! It was a challenge, Allison, I just said that. What, am I supposed to let him win?”

Allison pulls her head out of her hands in favour of looking at Neil like he’s gone insane. Her eye’s twitching. Eh, it’s whatever, he hasn’t been sane since he was a kid anyway. “You- Oh my god. I need to stop adopting the new kids, you are _terrible,”_ she murmurs, mostly to herself, and then says something in rapid-fire Welsh that Neil doubts he could decipher even if he took lessons. 

“I still can’t believe you just said you didn’t want to _cockblock_ us.” 

“What, do _you_ want me to?”

“There’s no cock to block!” he hisses, earning some weird looks from the kids sitting next to him. He turns a glare on them; they stop. One of them looks like she’s physically shrivelling up.

He drops his face against his knees as if that’s gaunnie protect him, staring into the pattern of his denim like it holds the secrets of the universe. Fucking cockblock. Christ. Neil hates it here.

The issue, though, is that he really, really doesn’t.


End file.
